Melissa de la Cruz - Blue Bloods

Heartfelt thanks to the book's fairy godmothers—Brenda Bowen, Helen Perelman, and Elizabeth Rudnick, who gave me a ship and let me fly. Thank you to Colin Hosten, Elizabeth Clark, and everyone at Hyperion for believing in this book. Thanks to Richard Abate, Kate Lee, Josie Freedman, and James Gregorio and Karen Kenyon at ICM for their fantastic support.

Hugs and kisses to the amazing DLCs and Johnstons: Mom—thank you for being at every reading and for always being there for me; Aina, Steve, Nico, and Chito—we are family, and we can boogie, too (especially Nicholas!); Dad J and Mom J—thank you for all your support and for buying all those books; John, Anji, Alex, Tim, Rob, Jenn, Val, and the one on the way we are family and we can mosh pit, too! Thanks to all the extended family, especially the Torres, the Gaisanos, the Ongs, the Izumis, and the de la Cruzes.

Many thanks to the LA and NY support groups: Tristan Ashby, Jennie Kim, Kim DeMarco, Gabriel Sandoval, Tom Dolby, Tyler Rollins, Jason Lundy, Andy Goffe, Jeff Levin, Peter Edmonston, Mark Hidgen, Caroline Suh, Doug Meehan, Thad Sheely, Gabby Sheely, Mindy Wilson, Ji Gilbreth, Catherine Hong, Yumi Kobayashi, Peter Sluszka, Ruth Basloe, Andrey Slivka, Alice Carmona, Michael Casey, Karen Robinovitz, Kate Roche, John Fox, Carol Fox, Karlo Pastrovic, Gabriel de Guzman, Edgar Papazian, Michelle Lenzi, Matt Paco, Fitz Mangubat, Taylor Hsiao, Arisa Chen, Katie Davis, Tina Hay, Diva Gittel, Liz Craft, Adam Fierro, Anna David, MaryClare Williams, Alexandra Jacobs, Nicole Cannon, Ian Kornbluth, Brent Bryan, Nora Gordon, Matthias Kohlemainen, Juliet Gray, Karen Page, Andrew Dornenburg, Sara Shandler, Emily Thomas, Jennifer Zatorski, Abby McAden, Allison Dickens, Jared Paul Stern, Lisa Marsh, Andrew Stone, Ben Widdicombe, Norah Lawlor, and Katie Murphy.

Thanks also to our little Peapod, who we will miss forever.

This book is dedicated to my dad, Bert de la Cruz, true blue in every sense of the word, who has heroes' blood in his veins.

This book would not exist without the love, support, insight, and intelligence of my husband, Mike Johnston, to whom I owe everything.

The family was not simply the sum of the connections created by a large, extended set of relations… a family… was a name, a material and symbolic patrimony, and a form of stakeholding in America… "describing a total lineage, past, present and future."

— Eric Homberger, Mrs. Astor's New York

You can't push it underground

You can't stop it screaming out

How did it come to this?

You will suck the life out of me…

— Muse, "Time Is Running Out"

One hundred and two people arrived on the Mayflower in November of 1620, but less than half lived to see the establishment of the Plymouth Colony the next year. While no one had died during the Mayflower's voyage, life after arrival was extremely difficult, especially for the young. Almost all of the lost were hardly sixteen years of age.

The staggering mortality rate was partly due to a harsh winter, as well as the fact that, while the men were out in the air, building homes and drinking fresh water, women and children were confined to the damp, crowded recesses of the ship, where disease could spread much more quickly. After the two-month voyage, they remained on the ship for an additional four months while the men built storehouses and living quarters on land. Young Puritans routinely cared for the sick, increasing their exposure to a vast array of illnesses, including a fatal affliction of the blood that historical documents called "consumption."

Myles Standish was elected governor of the colony in 1622 for thirty consecutive one-year terms. He and his wife Rose had fourteen children, a remarkable seven sets of twins. In an extraordinary turn of events, within a few years, the colony had doubled in size, with multiple births reported in all the surviving families.

— From Death and Life in the Plymouth Colonies, 1620–1641 by Professor Lawrence Winslow Van Alen

Catherine Carver’s Diary

21st of November, 1620

The Mayflower

It has been a difficult winter. The sea does not agree with John, and we are always cold. Perhaps we will find peace in this new land, although many believe we have not left danger behind. Outside my window, the coastline resembles Southampton, and for that I am grateful. I will always long for home, but our kind are no longer safe there. I myself do not believe the rumors, but we must do as instructed. It has always been our way. John and I are traveling as husband and wife now. We are planning on marrying soon. There are far too few of us, and more are needed if we are to survive. Perhaps things will change. Perhaps good fortune will shine on us, and our situation will ameliorate. The ship has anchored. We have landed. A new world awaits.

— C.C.

NEW YORK CITY

The Present

T he Bank was a decrepit stone building at the tail end of Houston Street, on the last divide between the gritty East Village and the wilds of the Lower East Side. Once the headquarters of the venerable Van Alen investment and brokerage house, it was an imposing, squat presence, a paradigm of the beaux-arts style, with a classic six-column façade and an intimidating row of «dentals» — razor-sharp serrations on the pediment's surface. For many years it stood on the corner of Houston and Essex, desolate, empty, and abandoned, until one winter evening when an eye-patch—wearing nightclub promoter chanced upon it after polishing off a hot dog at Katz's Deli. He was looking for a venue to showcase the new music his DJs were spinning—a dark, haunted sound they were calling "Trance."

The pulsing music spilled out to the sidewalk, where Schuyler Van Alen, a small, dark-haired fifteen-year-old girl, whose bright blue eyes were ringed with dark kohl eye shadow, stood nervously at the back of the line in front of the club. She picked at her chipping black nail polish. "Do you really think we'll get in?" she asked.

"No sweat," her best friend, Oliver Hazard-Perry replied, cocking an eyebrow "Dylan guaranteed a cakewalk. Besides, we can always point to the plaque over there. Your family built this place, remember?" He grinned.

"So what else is new?" Schuyler smirked, rolling her eyes. The island of Manhattan was linked inexorably to her family history, and as far as she could tell, she was related to the Frick Museum, the Van Wyck Expressway, and the Hayden Planetarium, give or take an institution (or major thoroughfare) or two. Not that it made any difference in her life. She barely had enough to cover the twenty-five dollar charge at the door.

Oliver affectionately swung an arm around her shoulders. "Stop worrying! You worry too much. This'll be fun, I promise."

"I wish Dylan had waited for us," Schuyler fretted, shivering in her long black cardigan with holes in each elbow. She'd found the sweater in a Manhattan Valley thrift store last week. It smelled like decay and stale rosewater perfume, and her skinny frame was lost in its voluminous folds. Schuyler always looked like she was drowning in fabric. The black sweater reached almost to her calves, and underneath she wore a sheer black T-shirt over a worn gray thermal undershirt; and under that, a long peasant skirt that swept the floor. Like a nineteenth century street urchin, her skirt hems were black with dirt from dragging on the sidewalks. She was wearing her favorite pair of black-and-white Jack Purcell sneakers, the ones with the duct-taped hole on the right toe. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back with a beaded scarf she'd found in her grandmother's closet.